In the Small Hours
by 0074
Summary: What do Spooks think about when they are awake in the small hours? Starts with ep 3.7 and goes on from there.
1. Chapter 1

**What do Spooks think about when they are awake in the small hours? **

**Based on events in 3.7.  
**

Andrew had been laying silently in front of Ruth for a long time. She'd lost track of how long. One minute he'd been talking to her, _at_ her, crowing that _he_ was the one who invented the G&J Key, and that now he had what he was owed. The next minute he'd crumpled to the floor, unable to speak. His body spasmed for a time, then stilled. Ruth could only guess what had happened, that it was something to do with the diamonds he'd shown off with alacrity, but she knew he was dead.

Earlier, Andrew had tied Ruth's hands to the banister, held awkwardly above her head, and now she was stuck. There was no way she could have done anything for him. She wasn't sure she would have wanted to help him anyway, not really. What he'd done to innocent people ... it was so cold, calculating. It appalled her that someone could behave like that.

Ruth couldn't think of any way to get out of her predicament. All she could do was sit and wait, and hope. Hope that her colleagues would work out where she was. It was either very late, or very early, depending on how you looked at it, and she had no idea how long it might take them to discover she was missing, and what had happened.

Ruth closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply as she thought back over the last few hours. _I should have realised it was him. Why didn't I work it out sooner?_ The signs had all been there, but she'd been blind to them. Unusually distracted, when she should have been focused.

She wasn't even certain why she'd said yes to Andrew's offer of dinner. _Well actually, that's not true. I know why._ She was flattered that he'd asked, that he wanted to spend time with her. It was better than a late, lonely meal in front of the television, which was the way most of her evenings played out. And if she was honest with herself, there was also the chance that Harry might sit up and take notice. Not that he had been around at the time, nor would she have expected him to do anything if he had been. But when the team found out, as they were sure to, she knew someone was bound to make comment in his presence. _Why did it always come back to Harry?_

Her eyes still closed, Ruth replayed memories of her first day on the grid. She had been late, and entering the meeting room, only just managed to stop herself from dropping the entire armful of files all over the place. She was conscious of the team's wariness, but then Harry's silly joke, and his response to her nervous comment about the Home Office, had somehow reassured her, boosted her confidence. And later, when she told him about hacking into the French Secret Service, she'd felt an unexpected thrill at his reaction. She could still picture the look on his face. A mixture of shock and awe.

Shock and awe. Ruth had experienced that too, at the climax of the EERIE exercise. Shock and awe that Harry could fool them like that, and that he wasn't dying. Tinged with fright, at her anger, and the realisation that she would have missed him if he had died, even after knowing him such a short time. The strength of those emotions still scared her, and so she preferred to endure them in silence. _It wouldn't do any good anyway. It's not like he could possibly feel the same way._

It was better to pretend she didn't feel anything, at least when she was at work. Though that was easier said than done. Ever since Tom had gone off the rails, Harry had come to rely on her. Not just in her role as analyst, but as a kind of confidante. She thought it had started in earnest on the day, only hours before Tom had shot him, when Harry told her of his doubts and asked for her support: _Will you stand by me on this Ruth?_ And Ruth had given it, unreservedly. Harry had her complete loyalty, and then some. He always would. She knew he was far from perfect, but she understood his motives, and his actions were rarely unjustified.

She couldn't explain why she felt the way she did. Not in so many words. It was simply a progression, a combination of little things: a common desire for justice, bravado that belied underlying fears and insecurities, mutual respect, and a sense of humour. Moments of shared understanding ... the way he sometimes looked at her, eyes sparkling and gentle. And so many other things she couldn't possibly put her finger on, and which wouldn't mean anything to anybody else anyway. An innate compatibility. _Why do I keep doing this? It's pointless. Stop wishing for something that's never going to happen._

Ruth felt emotionally and physically exhausted, and events were taking their toll. However much she tried to remain still, her wrists kept chafing, and her arms ached from being wrenched into an unnatural position. She finally allowed a few silent tears to escape, and they trickled down her cheeks.

Eventually, she slipped into a restless sleep, visions of Harry flitting through her subconscious.

**There may be more to this. I have a couple of ideas percolating away in my head, each of which could take the story in different directions. So I guess it's a case of watch this space, and we'll see what happens.**


	2. Chapter 2

Ruth woke with a start, a few tiny beads of sweat forming at her temples. Just over three weeks had passed since the incident with Andrew Forrestal, and she still found it unnerved her. The memory of it confronted her when she least expected it - usually at night, when she was ready to fall asleep, and trying to clear the other thoughts that crowded her head.

She had made it out alive. Adam, Danny, and a team of armed officers had converged on Andrew's house mid-morning, and carried her off to the sanctuary of the grid. Ruth had been so relieved, that she had little time to wish that Harry had been with them. He materialised a short time later though, at the door of the medical suite. A grave look on his face, and concern in his voice: _Ruth, are you alright?_

That satisfied her desire to know he cared. And he _did_ care; she could see it, hear it. He'd continued talking to her, and she'd sat and let the sound of his voice wash over her, calm her, while the wounds on her wrists were cleaned and dressed. Then she'd allowed him to arrange for his driver to take her home.

After today, when they'd had a new threat to deal with, Ruth was restless and pottered around the house until it was quite late: cleaning the kitchen, tidying the pantry, sorting through her bookshelves. She'd felt too fidgety to watch television, or read a book. By midnight, she had crawled into bed and lay there for a while thinking about the young girl. The daughter of a mercenary: Robert Morgan's daughter.

Ruth had almost not told Harry about the daughter. She was very uncomfortable with the blurry, grey places that the job took her, and found that it actually got more difficult, not easier. It was like the more she knew, the more she understood about what went on, the harder it became to make sense of any of it.

Morgan's daughter was sick and he was clearly willing to do whatever it took to give her what she needed. Harry had recognised Ruth's indecision, and tried to reassure her. She understood that he would still do what he had to, because that's how he got to be Head of Section D, that's what made him who he was. It didn't stop her examining it in her head though:_ Where is the line in the sand? When do we reach a point where we finally stop and say enough? A little girl shouldn't be put in that position, in danger, even if she doesn't realise it, and even if it is for the good of the country._

Now, having woken in the middle of the night, Ruth could still see what had jolted her from her sleep. The nightmare played over and over, even as she lay with her eyes open, pulling the covers higher. She had been in Andrew's dining room, sitting at the table eating and talking with him. Then Andrew had morphed into Harry, and Ruth was grilling him, as though he was sitting through a job interview. And suddenly, Ruth was tied to the banister in the hallway, Harry looming over her, like some awful caricature, laughing and grinning maniacally. He told her there was no such thing as a line in the sand, and he'd finally gotten what he deserved, the Director General's job.

Ruth shivered, and shook her head, trying to rid it of the images. She pulled the covers tighter and held them near her chin, arms across her chest, in an attempt to lock in as much warmth as possible. She was glad Harry didn't get the job. She 'd done everything possible to help him prepare for the interview: compiled a list of potential questions covering all aspects of the role, sat down with him in his office and asked some of the questions, and later caught him on the hop to see how he performed answering under pressure. She was tough on him.

Ruth took the responsibility seriously, as she did every task that was asked of her, but knew she didn't like the idea of Harry leaving. She'd practically told him as much, said something silly about the way he paced around: _You wouldn't forget us would you? When you're pacing the thickly carpeted floor of your new office?_ He'd called her on that, and given her a funny look, but she hadn't hung around long enough to hear or see anything else.

Afterwards, when the interview process was over, and when Morgan had given up the information to save his daughter, Harry had told her that he didn't get the job. He'd seemed content with the outcome, but also a little disappointed. He'd told her at the start that he was asked to apply for the position, and that he didn't want it; but she knew being told he was unsuccessful still hurt him, dented his pride, however much he didn't want the job.

Ruth wanted to let him know she understood, but couldn't find the right words. _I'm pleased_, she'd told him, and he'd smiled at her, perhaps sensing what she was feeling, knowing that he'd wanted to make a good impression, and show he was capable regardless.

_Harry is staying_. Ruth smiled, the nightmare now forgotten as she remembered how, as she left the grid that evening, Harry had teasingly pretended to call her back on some pretext. She remembered his laugh, full of delight at her response, and the smile broke into a beaming grin.

**Harry as the central figure in Ruth's nightmare just kind of happened as I wrote this. I saw it clearly in my head, as though it was happening to me, and the idea of it tickled my fancy.**


	3. Chapter 3

**For those readers who were asking for a chapter from Harry's POV, here it is**.** Hope you enjoy it.**

Stepping inside and fumbling for the light switch, Harry squinted against the sudden brightness. It was well past midnight, and he was due back on the grid by eight o'clock.

Walking into the living room, he headed for the decanter on the sideboard and poured a drink. The warmth of it suffused his body as it slid down his throat. He stood there silently for a moment, then returning the glass to the sideboard, he turned the light off again, and moved carefully upstairs, through the darkened house.

He didn't expect to sleep much, but his body was demanding rest of some kind. Undressing and sliding into bed, Harry hoped even a couple of hours sleep would bring a relief of sorts. Respite from the tragic day. _It never gets any easier._

It was watching Ruth that had driven it all home. He couldn't control everything. Of course he knew that, but some days, no matter how hard he tried, it seemed he couldn't control _anything. _And now, Danny was dead. The grief that had engulfed Ruth was palpable, and there was nothing he could say or do that would make any difference. So he hadn't tried. He'd felt unable to look away from her though, until he was called and had no choice but to leave her alone with Danny.

Danny's death was the latest in a long line of deaths. Harry had lost many colleagues and friends, and it always hit hard. This was no different, except this time, he was acutely aware of how much it was also affecting someone else; and that her pain was hurting him. Laying in bed, he thought he could still feel it.

He put it down to her recent comments, revealed in the course of discussing the DG's job. Ruth had inadvertently drawn his attention to the fact that she enjoyed having him around, and that thought pleased him. He enjoyed having her around too. Ruth was intellectually brilliant, compassionate, and willing to stand her ground and say what she thought. W_ears her heart on her sleeve_, he remembered thinking not long after she joined the team.

During those first months of her secondment from GCHQ, Harry had been convinced her presence at Thames House was driven by ulterior motives. And sure enough, things were not as they seemed. But Ruth had proved herself, to the team and to him. She was a desk spook, but he was certain she could take on a legend with the best of them. Her capacity for recalling obscure information and accessing the imperviable was, particularly when combined with her ingenuity, worth bottling._ Who else could have taught Danny how to play the stock market? Or think to recruit taxi drivers for goodness sake?_

Until recently, Harry hadn't been willing to consciously acknowledge the impact she had on him. Now, he could admit to himself that there was a reason he confided in her so much. Most recently, about the fact he'd been asked to apply for the position of Director General. He relished her honesty in their exchanges, with him and about him. She wouldn't let him get away with being autocratic. She was determined he should understand her perspective. To at least make sure he considered other points of view. He wasn't sure why he let her do that, but she was the only one who could get away with it.

Harry really didn't have much experience of women who stood their ground, said what they thought, but _also_ cared deeply for people. In fact, the only woman he knew who was truly like that, was Ruth.

His brow furrowed as he wondered whether she was sleeping right now. It was quite likely she wasn't. There was a good chance that, like him, she was laying awake thinking about what had happened. Thinking about Danny. Possibly even crying herself to sleep. He wouldn't blame her if she was.

Danny was … Danny had been ... like a precocious teenager. He could be charming. And clever, ingeniously so, though he didn't always focus his talents in the right direction. He'd been prone to rash decisions. Like with his credit cards ... and just like today. _Why did you have to taunt him Danny? Just a little bit longer and we would have been there._ In the end, there hadn't been any more time; they hadn't gotten there before the worst happened. But Fiona was back with Adam and Wes because of Danny's sacrifice. _Acts of hatred also produce acts of love._

As Harry watched Ruth crying over Danny's body, he had wished he could do the same. He'd wanted to let go of his emotions, and rage and shout at the unfairness of it all. He'd wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms, and hold her tightly. To tell her that he cared. Not just about Danny and his death, but that he cared about her, and was sorry she had to experience this. He hadn't though. Instead, he had maintained the control he always fought so hard for. The control that he only released when he was alone.

At times like this, all Harry could do was lay in bed, his cheeks moist with tears, and watch the moonlight play across the ceiling.


End file.
